HiDeeHo

Saturday, November 02, 2002

So I have my new system set up in my office cum bedroom; however, what is the main thing that I need? Internet.

What did they forget to put in the box with the computer? The driver for the ethernet card. DUH!

I am at the Mukwonago Library right now because of my internetless state, and it's really unnerving. It's almost like having no phone, no electricity, no post office even. I feel dreadfully out of touch.

Slave Labor publishes Vasquez, and a lot of other cool shit. For any of you who may have wondered about my comic preference...throw no stones, this is it. None of it takes itself too seriously, and a lot of it might be categorized as oh, I don't know, say....WHIMSICAL?!?!?

Tuesday, October 29, 2002

J&J-2GTHR-4EVR (edit)

The perils of your eyelashes torture my libido into a state of crass belief in Roman Catholicism. Your arms lengthen daily like the edges of a festering table. *May your air-layering festooneries never cease to amaze the typist monks. Legions of Communists worship your robust cannabalism of Capitalists clad in junk mail suits. *Pretty babies howl for Uncle Slim when they smell you in the room. Your skin sheds forth so that I endlessly crave pans of fried baklava. Your nasal hair speaks volumes concerning the Isle of Wright. Hermaphrodites around the galaxy desire that you turn your rock and crochet bowl to its loudest setting. I would beg to see your arms raised in calcification towards the expanding horizon as the minutemen stand before me with their phallic gums aimed and loaded. Bleed me! *My memory is fried with your mirlitons! In hunger you most certainly drool your tongue like a well-oiled pendulum, swinging to and fro in a sinusoidal frieze befitting a wounded mosque. *Hail to your lines of lamb vindaloo. You are as orange as a congeleen afro curled around the bony edges of a silver spoon expressing its innermost desires for a lime-based detergent. So charmingly heathen, your skin is like a teardrop on a popsicle. *Never again shall I long for another's dental floss remnant, for you have chastised me upside my derriere. Your soul contains all that is found in insects, pigs and vermin. *The turtles are fallen and the rain stands still. How long must I suffer with your undergarments? How beautiful is the snowshine in your eyes, so directly current from the static in your brain. You look like a million paces. Your hair is reminiscent of a digesting yak. I love your eyes, but only with ketchup. The quietness of a manhole cover cannot compare with the wild vapours of nylon I sense in your larynx. Fast blinking reveals the true visage of time pieces hidden within your eyes. *Your cheeks are flushed with memories of a thousand weeds never smoked, a million lollies never lost. You wear your ears well, true to the testament of loose fitting flesh. Flies dance operas to your wisdom. You are the swordfish that will never shower. Your raw sensuality flusters me as the dog sneezes into the ventilation fan. *Avast! Your mobility impediment shall not keep the cats away from your cage. *Pickled cherries roll loftily from the summit of your magnanimous lantern. *I treasure your lavender drops of debris. *Navel lint shall not overcome your rough-and-tumble kissability. *We sleep on squeakblack and awake to the bad news of the day, but when you rotisserate my heart dances a drunken solo tango and helium fills my lids.

Not only cryptic now, but absolutely ridcully-louse. Except for those last bits, which hit dangerously close to home.

Ah but now you can. The *asterisks* reveal my yabblings. My blither is prettier than that which your average surrealist would care to see, but can you blame me? Coming up on five months now and Pooka still makes me see back to the big bang and forwards to the breaking of the clockworks. Ah ze l'amour, ah ze toujours...(smooch, smooch, smooch)

Monday, October 28, 2002

NO SNOB ON RETINUES

I am yet victorious!

The white ginger-mango-black currant blaze of mush has been upended on YOUR head now. I'll clean you up a la Queen Vidalia, have no fear. My windows have fogged with ylang-squared and jasmine steam so I can breathe again. I miss your spray crumbs and clean guyness. The ghosts in the park want us to come play in the leaves, but before then I have to take out the underlines and put in extra spaces for Janet and the Krewe of Shands. Kalanchoe's flowers are pale. Come shine on them to turn them salmon-pink and shine on me to turn me spotted, Mr. Golden Sun and Miss Silver Moon. You think freckles are cute? Oh, I'll show you cute. Shine long enough and I'll turn so cute you'll go into convulsions.